


I Like The Sound of That

by Grandoverlord



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Dirty Talk, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Dom/sub, I think the first tag should be an apology, M/M, Power Play, Praise Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sexual Fantasy, Verbal Humiliation, Voice Kink, abstractly season 3-4ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23888200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grandoverlord/pseuds/Grandoverlord
Summary: Martin’s breath catches. “You wouldn’t--”Jon pauses there, untangles his hand from his hair, leaves Martin swaying as he crouches before him. “I would.” After a few long, desperate seconds, he shrugs and gets back to his feet. “But I won’t. Not this time, anyway. What I will do, though, is make you earn it.”“Anything,” Martin breathes.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 41
Kudos: 441





	I Like The Sound of That

“Now, this encounter could have been caused by a number of powers. Given that the experience took place underground, my first instinct would be the Buried-- but a massive subterranean cavern seems far more the style of the Vast, or perhaps the Dark.” Jon pauses to sigh. “I still haven’t figured out exactly how the collaboration of entities works. There are several scenarios where--” 

The door to his office creaks open, and Jon makes a noise of surprise that he’s rather annoyed has been captured on the recording. 

“You might as well come in, Martin.” 

Shoulders hunched apologetically, Martin steps into the room. His green jumper looks warm and thick, and as he offers Jon a mug of tea, his smile is just as warm. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were recording.” 

“No one ever seems to. Maybe I should make a sign.” 

“On air?”

“As if that’d be enough to stop any of you,” Jon mutters, taking the tea without a word. He takes a sip. It’s sweet-- what should be too sweet for anyone with tastebuds or teeth, but just right for him. 

Martin turns to leave, but as he makes his way down the hallway he starts at Jon’s snap. 

“For God’s _sake,_ Martin, can’t you close the door behind you?” 

Mumbling apologies, Martin scuttles back. Something about the hunch to his shoulders catches Jon as odd-- he’s not often looking up when Martin comes into the room, but he certainly looks...not quite right. Face red, hands-- good lord, are they shaking? Martin looks more disconcerted by a simple admonition than Jon could have anticipated. 

Jon bites his pencil. 

“Martin,” he calls, before the man actually manages to get the door shut. Martin freezes. 

A strain in his voice. “Yes?” 

“Sorry. I didn’t-- was that too harsh?” 

Jon doesn’t think he’s using any sort of compulsion. He’s learning to feel it, how the words are heavier, more honeyed, when they come, how it’s like he can feel his gaze grow sharper. So it’s even weirder when Martin stammers out a reply he looks like he’d rather not give. 

“It’s fine,” Martin says. Jon looks for the lie and cannot find it; he lets out a breath of relief. 

Something is still off about Martin, but nothing significant enough to matter. Not when he’s got so much work to do. 

Jon sends Martin on his way. 

It’s probably nothing. 

\---

It’s not nothing.

He doesn’t know if this is new or if it’s something that’s always been there, if he’s crueler than he thinks, or if Martin is simply sensitive. In the back of his mind, he worries about why Martin might be so skittish-- if it’s something more. Could it be supernatural in origin?

So he’s run some experiments. 

It’s nothing much. Jon doesn’t change the way he behaves, really-- still does his job, reads his statements, drinks inconsolable amounts of caffeine. But when Martin comes into the room, he always looks up. 

He notices several things, most of them irrelevant. 

He notices that Martin knocks softly, most days, and moves more quietly around Jon than he does normally-- an effort not to interrupt that Jon appreciates. It’s bad enough jumping at every creak in the floorboards. When Melanie knocks, sharp and uncompromising, it sends him halfway to the ceiling. 

He notices that Martin has more sweaters than a man has any right to own, each of them softer than the last. Jon considers briefly that he might be getting money from elsewhere-- but no, that would be ridiculous. No money laundering went through something that could actually be _laundered_. 

He notices that Martin smiles, often, apologizes more-- at least when Jon’s around-- and as far as he can tell, is inordinately flustered by being told off. Particularly by Jon-- Basira’s more gentle admonition does nothing to him. Not even Daisy’s snapping turns him red like Jon’s does.

And he notices, because he cannot help it, that he seems to be developing a certain weakness for the soft and friendly man that so often knocks on his door.

After Martin practically flees the room when Jon chides him for getting tea on a statement, Jon is forced to consider that he may just be mean. Maybe it’s because he’s Martin’s boss-- that’s perfectly reasonable. 

“A softer hand, then,” Jon murmurs into the still air of his office. He’s gotten used to speaking his thoughts aloud. 

Jon tries, and somehow it only gets harder.

“Listen, Martin,” Jon grates, watching Martin set down a cup of tea right next to the coaster for the hundredth time. “I’ll fetch my own tea from now on.” 

“Oh.” Martin pauses. “Have I-- do you not like it?” 

Jon sighs. “No, it’s fine. Good, even.” He pauses, searching for the right phrase. Jon cares about exactitude, about conveying what he means with precision. “It’s lovely.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Martin responds automatically. The question to follow hangs in the air. 

“I’m just trying to be more self sufficient,” Jon explains. “I feel that things might be easier if I get my own tea, less stressful for you.” 

“It’s not a bother, you know.” 

“I just get very focused,” Jon says. “And having you come in here, it--” 

Martin nods, a look of understanding dawning. “I see. Even if it’s not a bother to me, it is to you. Well, that’s no problem at all.” 

For all that he _cares_ about specificity, Jon remains terrible at communication. “No--I-- it’s not that. Really, Martin. I am often so deep in my work that I find myself snapping whenever I’m disturbed.” He offers a weak smile. “It wouldn’t matter if you were a pack of dogs or a puppy with a bow around your neck, I’d still find it in myself to be rude.”

“I can’t imagine you snapping at a puppy.” 

“Find me a puppy, Martin, and I’ll do my worst.” 

Martin laughs, the corners of his smile pressing into dimples. “I really am happy to keep bringing you tea every now and then, though. I like the chance it gives me to make sure you’re still alive in here. And I can handle a bit of prickle, don’t you worry." 

“If you insist, I suppose it’s fine-- I will simply try to be a little less...thorny with you.” 

The smile drops from Martin’s face, replaced by a quiet reluctance. “I really don’t mind.” 

Martin does not close the door behind him. 

As Jon gets up with an aggravated huff of air to shut it himself, he catches Martin casting looks behind him, a flush on his face. He knows what he’s done. 

And that’s when Jon starts to suspect something really is off. 

\---

Several piles of statements lay atop Jon’s desk in varying states of disorder. All his fault, really, hasn’t had the time to tidy up in a week and with _odd cases_ just piling in, he hardly knows if there’s an order still to keep. 

He feels a brief flare of gratitude towards his archival assistants. For all the insanity surrounding them, all the mistrust and frankly outright _aggression_ , their work is still as thorough as Jon could ask. He lets the file fall closed, and, as he tosses it onto a pile with the others, is surprised to see Martin Blackwood’s name looped on the front. 

As he works, thumbing through file after file, he pays attention to the names on them. 

Interesting. 

When he next sees Martin it is after hours. For once, Jon is expecting him. 

“May I ask you a question, Martin?” 

“I mean, yeah, I assumed that’s why you called me in here,” Martin says. “So what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, per se. I just thought it was time for a-- I suppose in another world, we’d call them employee reviews. I’m sure this will be brief.” 

“Ah, right!” Martin looks at the armchair opposite Jon’s desk. “Shall I take a seat, then?”

“Please do.” 

There’s a few moments of quiet as Jon shuffles through the papers on his desk. It’s a bit of a show-- he already knows which one he’s looking for. 

“Right then. Is this your work, Martin?” Jon leans over his desk to pass the file to Martin. 

It takes only a moment for recognition to flash across Martin’s face. “Yes, the Jameson house-- is there-- is there something wrong with it?” 

“Somewhat surprisingly, no.”

“Well, that’s good. So I’m doing okay?” 

“Far better than when you arrived. It’s good work. Meticulous.” Jon leans back in his chair. “I’ve never said this, because I believe it _was_ ultimately reckless, but your behavior in the Prentiss case impressed me. Your commitment. You didn’t have to do much of what you did, but you followed each loose end to their conclusion.” 

“What,” Martin scoffs. “By getting trapped in my flat for weeks?” 

“You decided to pursue the apartment. You decided to squeeze in through a cracked window to get into the basement,” Jon reminds him. “You followed through.” 

Martin purses his lips, but doesn’t protest Jon’s praise any further. 

Jon reaches out his hand expectantly and Martin hands the file back. “So,” Jon continues. “I wanted first to commend you. The time you’ve spent here has been to your professional benefit, if perhaps a detriment to inconsequential things like life expectancy.” 

“Thank you, Jon. I appreciate the feedback.” 

Martin is the picture of the professional, but Jon can trace the cracks in his placid smile as Jon continues. “What I am left wondering, then, is why so little of that translates to your personal conduct?” 

A frozen smile, a shake of the head. “Sorry?”

“Well,” Jon says. “As I’ve said, your work is meticulous. You made plenty of mistakes when you got here, but as indicated by your vastly improved work, it seems that you don’t tend to make the same mistake twice.” His eyes turn to Martin, and even he can see that Martin is uncomfortable over the intensity of his gaze. “Hardly the work of a man who leaves the door open every time he leaves the room.” 

Martin lets out a high, nervous laugh. “Is this about that? Sorry-- my mind’s just been elsewhere lately.” 

“I should correct myself,” Jon says. “It’s not every time. Sometimes you come in without knocking, or set the tea down on the wood instead of the coaster, or knock over the papers as you leave. It’s not always the same thing, but it does always seem to be _something._ ” 

“I don’t--” 

“I have been forced to come to the conclusion that you’re acting poorly on purpose. I want to know why.” Jon forces the buzzing compulsion out of his voice; he won’t use it unless he has to.

“It won’t happen again,” Martin says. He looks like he’d like the sofa to swallow him whole, leave nothing but a jumper behind. 

“I think it will.” 

And it’s a horrid little silence. Jon hates to watch Martin like this, uncomfortable and confused, but he needs _answers_. So he does not interrupt the silence. He just watches. 

Instead of replying, Martin comes to his feet all at once and makes to leave. “I’ll try to do better.”

“I need you to tell me why you’re doing it, Martin.” Jon’s voice grates, and even he can hear some of the edge he tries to keep down. “Are you trying to distract me from my work?” 

Martin pauses. “What?” 

“I know that not everyone working here _wants_ to be working here. I know that none of us can quit,” he lets out a low laugh. “I know it better than any of us.” His mind is suddenly crowded with images of eyes, and he forces it back down, focuses on what’s in front of him. “So I need to know if you’re-- if you’re angry. Like Tim.” 

“Look, I don’t love the fact that I’m stuck here, but I believe that what we’re doing is better than letting the apocalypse--” Martin starts, a clearer, more frustrated fluster coming over him. “I’m not going to sabotage you because the dental isn’t perfect.” 

Jon keeps his eyes down, traces the grain in the desk. He wants to read a statement, wants the relief it brings. He wants the exhaustion-- because this, this question, has been tying him in tighter and tighter knots the longer he thinks about it. 

And there’s only one way to know. 

“You claim you’re not trying to stop my work?” 

“Don’t be daft, Jon.” 

“Then what,” And Jon hates the buzz that lingers at the base of his head, the way his words come out too clear, too crisp-- sharper somehow, as if the sounds themselves are enough to carve. “ _Is_ it? Why do you do it?” 

Martin jolts and Jon can feel him try to resist-- the sensation only makes Jon buckle down harder, pushing until the buzzing is all that fills his ears. Finally, Martin’s shoulders slump and his eyes break towards the ground. 

“A few reasons,” Martin says. The words are dry, taken rather than given. “Early on it made you notice me. It was the only time you would look up at all. And then, well,” Martin lets out a little humorless chuckle. “Because I like being told off, you know, put in my place. Especially if it’s your voice. It’s already _like that_ , but then when you snap at me, well-- it drops lower when you’re angry, and the sound of it really does things to me.”

Jon wishes, somehow, that the static in his ears was in the air. He wishes anything, in fact, were in the air, making noise enough to distract them. At this moment he’d welcome a return visit from Ms. Prentiss. 

Martin flushes as soon as he’s finished speaking. The tips of his ears look absolutely scorching, and Jon’s not doing much better. 

After a long moment, Jon decides it’s on him to end the silence. “I see,” he says, and then realizes that’s not enough. “I--” 

“Sorry,” Martin starts at the same time. “I am so, so sorry. I’m going to go now. And I’ll let you fetch your own tea. I am so sorry.” 

Jon shakes his head, waves his hand. “No, I’m sorry-- I didn’t mean. Fuck. I shouldn’t have asked, should have--” 

“No, I-- it was wrong of me to provoke you for...any reason. I mean it. It was inappropriate.”

“I shouldn’t have compelled you-- I’m supposed to trust you, and that was most certainly a violation of trust,” Jon mutters. “I won’t do it again.” 

“Neither will I.” 

A pause. Jon cards his hands together, looks up to where Martin is standing, shifting his weight by the door. He wants to be gone. But what he’s said, that’s a whole new variable thrown into the mix. Ideally, he would have a few moments more to think about the words coming out of his mouth, but this is real life and things are rarely so neat. 

“What if,” Jon says. “If I want you to?” 

Martin blinks. “What?” 

“What if I am...curious about it, what you said? Is it something you’re interested in exploring further, in more controlled conditions?” Jon watches him carefully, ready to apologize at the slightest look of a discomfort that went deeper than the simple awkwardness hanging in the room. 

“You don’t mean that,” Martins says. “You don’t have to make me feel better about being weird.” He sighs. “You wouldn’t be interested.” 

“Why not?” Jon asks.

“It’s--” Martin takes a steadying breath. “I don’t _think_ you would be interested. You don’t seem the sort to be interested in your coworker’s sex lives.” 

“Generally speaking, I’m not.” 

“Exactly.”

“That should tell you, if nothing else, that you are exceptional. So tell me if you’d like to explore this further.” Jon leans forwards. “And understand that ‘no’ is a perfectly acceptable answer. I know there are power dynamics at work here, but I hope you know that you would face no sort of retribution for refusal, personal or professional.” 

Martin shakes his head, not in refusal, but disbelief. “Is this-- do you-- are you propositioning me? After I spilled that I get off on being scolded?” Jon can see why the Institute had chosen Martin to read when Jon was gone-- there is a scrutiny to his gaze that almost matches Jon’s own. “I have trouble telling, and if you’re not, that’s fine and we’re both adults--” 

“In a way,” Jon says. 

“In _what_ way is that?” 

This is the tricky part, the part where Martin is most likely to walk away. If he does, Jon will not hold it against him, but he hopes he will stay. 

“I’m not terribly interested in sex. The formal act of it, at least.” Jon keeps his eyes on Martin’s face, sees the thought register, the immediate acceptance, and a spark of hope lights in him. “I’ve done it, every now and then, to relieve tension, and because the physical experience can be enjoyable, but it’s not something that calls to me. What I have come to realize over the last few weeks is that I am, however, interested in you.”

“As in, romantically?” Martin asks.

“Ideally, yes.” 

Martin lets out a sharp bark of laughter. He schools his expression quickly, but there’s still some of that bewilderment left there. “Uh, okay. Yes. This is-- just in no way how I was expecting this conversation to go. Swings and roundabouts, you know?” 

“I find myself in much the same boat.” 

The two of them just look at each other for a long moment, and it’s still awkward, but not in that heavy, gauzy way-- now whatever stunned silence hangs between them is tinged with relief.

“So,” Martin says. “Do you want to go on a date? Because I’m interested in you, too-- obviously, I mean I just--” He cuts himself off. “I’m interested. Romantically. And if you want, sexually-- but only to whatever extent you’re actively interested in. I wouldn’t ask any more of you than you offer completely freely, because I know you, and you’re always self-sacrificing and--”

Jon lets out a choked nose that’s almost a laugh. “I think that’s something we talk about later. A date sounds nice. A break from all--” he gestures at his desk, “this.” He gives a weak grin. “We can figure out the rest of it later.” 

  
  


\---

Three formal dates, many late-night archive pizzas, such a flurry of quiet affections that Jon has quite lost count of the number of kisses, and all is well. The world is still caterwauling towards imminent destruction, and the various supernatural forces inhabiting it happen to have it out for them, but that’s nothing new. Things are good. As good as they can be.

Despite the decidedly more pleasant tenor of their tea-breaks, Jon finds himself almost missing part of before. Not the irritation, not the frustration or the inklings of suspicion. He misses the heightened awareness of those weeks, the way he had gotten to watch Martin, to really learn to _see_ him for the first time. 

He knows how it sounds. But that Martin, all scuttling and blushing and nervous laughs, had been cute. And now that Jon is thinking about it, the idea of _why_ he was those things-- well, he’s still not interested in sex. That’s not going to change. 

_But._

It’s after hours again. The two of them sit in amicable silence in Jon’s office, Martin with a laptop balanced precariously on crossed legs and Jon shuffling papers behind his desk. He’s only half focused, really, but there’s a nominal layer of productivity that justifies them both still being here. 

Jon scans over the opening lines of a new case, already aware that it’s a false report, and frowns. He looks up at Martin. He forces himself to continue reading. He looks up at Martin. He closes the file, tosses it away, picks up the next. 

Martin’s voice is a shock when it comes. “Jon,” he says. “You look like I’ve put a dead mouse in your tea.” 

“Hm.” 

“Hm?” 

Jon looks up. “Yes. Hm.” His eyes rove the stacks of files before him, the six half chewed pens scattered across his desk, and his mug of quickly cooling tea. He decides on the third of these, picks it up and takes a sip in lieu of a real response. 

“Is that a focused ‘hm’, an annoyed ‘hm’, or is there something on your mind?” Martin asks. 

“Something on my mind, Martin? Beyond the impending apocalypse? I wouldn’t have the space.” 

“Really, Jon.” 

Martin lowers the lid of his laptop, fixing Jon with a look. None of an Archivist’s piercing power, but enough concern in it that Jon sighs anyway. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Jon starts. “And frankly, I cannot stop thinking--” 

“Overthinking these things isn’t going to help anyone.” 

Jon lets out a chuckle at Martin’s chiding. “‘You might want to wait to see where this one is going before you condemn me for it,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about what you said a few weeks ago in my office. About what...does it for you.’

A huff of embarrassed air and Martin buries his face in his hands.”God, I was hoping that you might forget that. It really did just slip out--”

“If you’re interested, I’d like to try it. I think it would be interesting.” 

Martin gives a disbelieving laugh, shakes his head. “But I thought you said you weren’t interested in sex? I hope you haven’t felt pressured by anything I’ve said or done, I--” 

“You haven’t pressured me in the slightest, Martin.” Jon takes another sip of tea, feeling the warmth spread throughout him. Martin hasn’t turned him down, not yet. “But, as you may have realized about me, I like to _know_ things. I want to know you. In every way. And this is-- evidently-- a part of you.” 

“A properly weird part.” 

“Hardly,” Jon says. “Plenty of people find power dynamics thrilling in a forbidden fruit sort of way. And sexual degradation allows you to access your feelings of shame surrounding sex in a healthy--” 

“Yeah-- um, enough of that, I think. It sounds like you’re reciting search results and frankly I don’t want to know what you’ve been googling.” 

“I’ve found some remarkably informative videos.” 

“You’ve found some _informative videos_. My god.” 

Jon frowns, placing his mug on the desk. “Is this something you’d rather I not get involved in? I understand that it’s different to...desire something from afar versus actually act upon it.” 

“How do you manage, each and every day, to say exactly the thing that’s going to throw me off my balance, Jon?” Martin gives an exasperated, fond look. “Every day I think, right, I know what’s going to happen today. It’s going to be either archival work or the end of the world. And usually, I’m right! Except,” he says with a sigh. “When it comes to you.”

“Is that a ‘no’?”

“It’s a...stall. Let me think about it for a bit.” 

Jon tilts his head, gives as soft a smile as he can. “Do let me know.” Martin nods. 

So they return to their work. 

And later, they talk. They set down some rules, some boundaries, some lines not to cross and some Martin, apparently, wants crossed, scored, and left beyond a state of legibility. 

Jon is more than curious. These are places that he’s never gone before, things he’s never seen, and that in itself is enough to incite his attention. But even more so, that he is seeing them with _Martin_ \--he cannot deny the anticipation. 

It’s late, past midnight probably, when they’re just about ready to head home for the day. “Do you want to try it?” Jon asks.

“What, tonight?” 

“Why not?” Jon asks. “We’re already here. And we’re most certainly alone.” 

Martin lets out an alarmed sound. _“Here?_ ” He manages. 

“I had assumed your fantasies took place at the Institute, given their work-bound nature.” 

“I…” Martin trails. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Just-- what I said before about surprising me.”

Jon grins at that, sly. “Some of it may be intentional.” 

\--- 

Jon sits, once more, at his desk. He does not look up as the door creaks open, hears rather than sees Martin Blackwood step into the room. Though he tries to walk lighter, Jon is eminently aware of his presence.

He continues as he was, using the opportunity to correct some details on the top file on his desk. He hadn’t meant to actually get any work done-- but who is he to turn the opportunity down? 

After a moment, Martin clears his throat. 

In an instant, Jon’s gaze snaps up, fixes on him, narrows. “What?” 

“I brought you a new case,” Martin starts. “It--” he cuts himself off, looking to Jon for approval. 

He finds none there. “Just what I needed. And I suppose it couldn’t have waited?” 

“I just wanted--” 

“To annoy me? Well done.”

The twinge of guilt that strikes through Jon abates at the look on Martin’s face. He’s already blushing, eyes wide. The idea of this makes sense to Jon in theory, but to see it in practice is another thing altogether; Martin _is_ enjoying it.

Martin glances towards the door. “Sorry. I’ll just be going, then--” 

“And what?” Jon shoots back.“‘Knock over my papers on the way out? Spill tea all over the statements? Or will you leave the door open _again_?” He does his best to arrange his features into disinterested disappointment. “You might as well stay here where I can keep an eye on you.” Jon turns back to his paperwork.

Martin swallows and goes to sit in the chair, but freezes when Jon’s gaze flicks up again. “No,” Jon says. 

“I...no?” 

“Not the chair. I’m sure you know that you don’t deserve that.” 

“Shall I just stay standing, then?” Martin asks, wringing his hands. Jon can almost feel it, the anticipation rolling off his skin. 

“I didn’t say that either,” Jon says, scowling. “Read between the _lines,_ Martin. Kneel.” 

And he does. Without a word of complaint, a moment of hesitation, Martin falls to his knees. 

It’s a sight. 

Jon pushes to his feet, gathers what height he can, and strides around to the front of the desk. He doesn’t touch Martin, doesn’t do anything more than lean against his desk and look. It’s a different angle than he’s used to, and he drinks it in. 

Though Jon experiences little in the way of sexual attraction, he can, _abstractly_ speaking, understand the appeal of the way Martin is looking at him, soft eyes shaded by surprisingly long eyelashes, his mouth open just a little. He’s pretty, like this. Eager to please. 

Jon looks down on him and gives a little grin, just the corners of his mouth twitching up. “Do you enjoy being on the floor, being beneath me? Such a literalist.” He pauses, rakes his eyes down Martin. The man’s taut as a bowstring, his hands tucked behind his back as if on instinct-- they’ll have to explore that one later. “Well then, let’s have a look at you. Go on.” 

“What do you want me to do?” Martin asks, breathy. 

“Good lord, shall I print you a manual? Shirt off.” Jon gives a little wave of his hand. 

Martin takes it off like he can’t do it fast enough, hands shaking a little as they grasp at the neck and pull it over his head. 

“Are you going to just leave it on the ground? Fold it.” 

Martin’s shirt rests neat on the ground, and Jon takes a second to consider his course of action. 

For now, he just lets Martin squirm. Jon keeps his gaze cool and level and takes in the expanse of Martin’s neck, his stomach, his chest. He finds each scar and traces it with his eyes and watches goosebumps appear as if Jon really were touching him. He takes note, almost by rote, of the tent in Martin’s pants. 

Finally, it is Martin who breaks the silence.

“What do you want from me?” He manages. 

“What would you like?” Jon returns, and there’s that tingle of compulsion. Martin had brought it up cautiously, shyly, and Jon doesn’t see the harm. 

“I want to kiss you,” his response is almost immediate “I want your hands on me, on my chest, fingers in my mouth, or maybe just watching me take myself apart-- but more than that,” Martin breathes. “I want you to make me do whatever you want, and let me know that you think that it’s pathetic how willing I am, how eager.” 

“Is there more?” Jon asks, without the compulsion this time, as if it’s nothing but idle curiosity. 

Martin is silent. 

“I said,” Jon growls. “ _Is there more?_ You _answer_ me.”

Martin lets out a shuddering breath and drops his gaze. “I want to be naked and feel your eyes on me. I want your voice, low like that. I want for you to watch me as I get desperate from your words alone, the humiliation of it-- I want to be a mess for you, Jon, and I want to barely be able to see the look of disdain on your face as I come so hard my vision starts to white out.’ He breathes. ‘God, I’m-- That’s a lot--”

“Well,” Jon interrupts. “You’re making good progress towards my finding you pathetic. For all your weaknesses, I never imagined that you were a _slut_ as well.” The word feels like it ought to be acrid on his tongue, but the way, Martin flushes and snaps his hands behind his back once more-- it’s never tasted so sweet.

This feeling of power is rare for him. It’s Martin that’s giving it to him, giving up control-- he could take it back any moment, end this little scene, but he _won’t,_ and Jon cannot help but find a moment of wonder in that. 

Perhaps he spends a little too long caught in his fondness for Martin, because he finds the words clumsier when he looks for them again. 

“At least you’re honest,” Jon deadpans. He rolls up his sleeves. “But I think there’s more. I think you’ve _thought_ about this enough that there’s got to be. And I want to know it all. So where shall we begin, Martin?” 

Martin shakes his head, lets out a low noise. Fair enough, Jon allows. There’s not much of a way to respond to that. 

“I think we should start with the physical. Is there anything in this room that’s caught your fancy--” he pauses, lets out a chuckle, “--other than me, I suppose?” 

It’s not obvious, but he catches Martin’s eyes flick to the side of Jon, linger on the desk for just a moment before going to the floor once more. Martin shakes his head. 

“The desk,” Jon muses. “Of course.” He drums his fingers on the wood. “Tell me about it.” 

“Well, I--” he flushes. “It’s difficult.” 

“What, you can’t even talk about it without the compulsion? Is it that shameful to you?” 

Silent, Martin nods. 

“Then _tell me_.” 

Martin swallows and pauses, but of course, in the end he does. “I like to imagine-- I mean, it’s not creative, is it, the things that I’d like for you to do to me on that desk?” His reluctance washes away under the compulsion, though, and it comes easy after a moment.

“I’ve imagined,” Martin says. “Coming in here with some shoddy work, maybe on purpose, being bent over that desk. I end up desperately fucking myself back on your fingers because you tell me you can’t even be bothered to punish me since I seem to enjoy it too much. I think about you sitting at your desk, recording your statements,” he pauses to wet his lips. “With me under it, dragging noises out of you that make you start over-- and of course, I get punished for that as well.” 

He shifts his weight between his knees-- discomfort or arousal? Jon guesses both. “I’d have to sit there for hours without moving, your cock down my throat. Sometimes you use my mouth, sometimes you halfway forget I’m there-- because even sucking you off I’m _nothing_.” 

Jon arches an eyebrow. “If you’re going to start like that, you might as well touch yourself.” 

Martin freezes, every line in his body going rigid. His hand starts drifting towards his belt buckle, but flinches back at the ice in Jon’s voice. 

“Not there. You haven’t earned that yet.” 

Jon thinks it’s the _yet_ that really gets to Martin. Jon watches Martin’s hands, hesitant but familiar, trail up his sides, across his chest. The touches are barely there, light and sweet. 

“Is that how you do it, when you’re alone? When you’re thinking about this?” Jon asks. He can’t keep the curiosity from trickling into his voice, breaking the demeanor just a bit.

“Ah, no,” Martin says, his hands pausing. “Should I--?” 

“I thought that much was obvious.” 

Martin is more firm with his touches this time, letting out a little breath of air when he glances his nipple. Jon watches intently as it hardens to the touch, and Martin lingers there, rubbing neat little circles around it. Martin closes his eyes, getting acclimated to the world of sensation. 

“Are you always this easy on yourself?” Jon asks. 

Martin shakes his head and with a soft noise pinches his nipple, rolls it between his fingers, scrapes his other hand’s nails lightly down his chest. The marks show red on his skin, though Jon hardly has the time to take note as his eyes catch Martin’s hand once again straying towards his pants-- probably just to adjust himself, but-- 

Jon moves in a flash, slapping Martin’s hand away. “What was that?”

“I just thought--” 

“I didn’t _say,_ though, did I?” 

Martin shakes his head. “No.” 

“Are you trying to make me angry, I wonder,” Jon muses. “Trying to goad me into a punishment that you’ll enjoy?” He releases Martin’s arm with a smug grin. “Seems like you’re forgetting who’s in control here. If you want something, you’ll have to ask permission.” 

Now that he’s in front of Martin, it’s hard not to touch him. Jon doesn’t see any reason not to indulge. 

As he speaks, he winds his way around Martin, hands brushing his cheeks, the scatter of freckles across his shoulders, carding through his curly hair. Martin leans into every touch, especially the last. Jon can almost feel the need in him, the part of him that craves tenderness under all this scorn. 

When it’s time, he’ll get it. For now, though, Jon threads his hand further into that hair and _tugs_. Martin gasps, goes limp at the movement. “What do you want?” Jon asks. His hands alternative between gentle scratching and harsher tugs, alternating without rhythm. Just his whims. 

Jon doesn’t have to compel him this time. Martin is pliant under his words. 

“I want to touch myself.” 

“I’ve already allowed that,” Jon says. 

“I want-- I want to touch my cock,” Martin manages. “Please, Jon. I need _something_ , please.” 

There’s something about this that’s intoxicating. Watching Martin come undone, it’s fascinating, goes right to his head-- he can only imagine what Martin feels. For the first time, he understands the appeal. 

Jon hums in reply. “I do like the sound of that,” he murmurs. “I like the ‘please.’ Do carry on.” 

“I-- God, Jon, I need it, the friction-- I’m going to melt, going to...” his statement comes to a stop as Jon tugs sharply at his scalp. 

“I wonder if you could come just like this. Do you think it’s enough, just my words?” 

Martin’s breath catches. “You wouldn’t--”

Jon pauses there, untangles his hand, leaves Martin swaying as he crouches before him. “I would.” After a few long, desperate seconds, he shrugs and gets back to his feet. “But I won’t. Not this time, anyway. What I will do, though, is make you earn it.”

“Anything,” Martin breathes. 

“Then tell me more. Tell me _freely_ , the things you’ve imagined here. Make a statement out of it, if you like.” 

Martin gives a groan, and whatever blood isn’t going to his cock rushes into his cheeks. “Nail on the head, there,” he says. 

“Oh?” 

“I--I’ve imagined,” he says, with none of the surety of compulsion, but all the need. “Walking in while you’re making a recording and of course that ruins it, so you decide to punish me then and there,” he says. “Without...without even turning the tape recorder off. And then you forget about it, and I’m sitting in the archives and someone’s going through old tapes to follow up and they listen to that one--” 

He looks as if he desperately wants to bury his head in his hands, but whatever he’s been taught, he’s learned it well. They stay behind his back. “And the whole room hears it. They hear me begging for you, how halfway through I just stop being able to speak altogether because I’m too fucked out to make words-- they hear me come, of course, and the second it’s over I can feel their eyes on me.” 

“Everyone would know what you are.” Jon pauses. “What you are for me.” 

Martin nods. “And no one would ever mention it, but they’d all _know_. They’d all be thinking about it, and I would be able to tell.” A shudder runs through him at the thought. “May I--” 

“Not so fast,” Jon says. After a moment, he lets some of the scowl recede. “That was good, though. You did well.” 

Jon can’t tell if the derision or the praise works Martin up more. 

“One last question,” Jon says, as if he doesn’t care one way or another. “What are you going to do to yourself?” 

“Exactly what you want,” Martin breathes. “Anything you want. Everything.”

“Good answer.” He nods. “Go ahead, if you really must.”

It seems he no sooner says it than Martin has his belt undone, his pants unzipped. He doesn’t stand, so he just leaves his trousers there, pushed down, his cock jumping at the slightest touch of his hand. 

“Slowly,” Jon says. “I don’t want you taking yourself over the edge. I’m not done with you yet.” 

Martin’s hand drags over himself in a movement that looks almost painfully slow. “Well,” Jon says. “For all your faults, let no one say that you can’t listen to instructions.” He tilts his head, scrutinizes Martin. “You _are_ good at this, being on your knees for me. You’re so attentive, hanging on my every word. Faster, now.” 

Martin obliges, biting his lip. Pearls of precum gather at the tip of his cock and slicken it. 

“See what I mean? I could tell you to stop,” Jon says, letting it hang in the air. “And you’d walk out of here, hardon and all, and never mention it again. You’d think it serves you right. Yes,” Jon says, as if half to himself. “I think your strongpoint really is just being an obedient little slut.” 

It seems Martin can’t hold back a noise at that, a weak groan. “Can’t keep quiet, can you?” Jon asks. “I can already see what a mess you’re making of yourself. Let me hear it, too.” 

And the _sounds_ that come from Martin’s mouth as he works himself over, hand slick and eyes shut against the sensation-- they’re like nothing Jon could have imagined. They’re soft, though they’re certainly getting louder, sound half dragged from him, like he couldn’t hold them back if he wanted to. Some of them are mostly air, others are low, inarticulate sounds-- no words, just pleasure. 

“Let me ask you again, Martin, what do you want?” 

There’s no hesitation. “I want to be good for you, want to be good-- fuck, Jon, please, want to be a good slut for you, I’ll do whatever you want just _please_ ,” 

“All this time and you wanted to be _good?_ I could hardly tell,” Jon drawls. 

“Please, please--” Martin lets out a choked sound, his hand slowing. 

“What are you doing?” Jon snaps. “I didn’t tell you to stop.” 

“If I keep it up, I’m gonna come, Jon, and I don’t-- you haven’t said I can, want to be _good_ \--” 

“Hm. You’re right. We can’t have that. Stop.” 

Martin’s hand comes to a still almost immediately, though he whines at the loss. 

“Impressive,” Jon remarks. “I didn’t think you’d have the control. Here,” he says, tossing a hazy-eyed Martin a small bottle of lube. “I presume you know what to do with this. Although you’re already so wet I half doubt you need it. 

“You want me to…” 

“Yes. You can, can’t you?” Jon lets a little bit of concern trickle into his voice. It’s a lot to ask, after everything-- he needs to make sure. 

Martin nods, spreads his legs, lets some of the lube drizzle onto his fingers. 

“Let’s start with one,” Jon directs. 

Jon can say one thing about Martin-- he wastes no time. There’s no careful circling, no preamble or prelude. Martin is too desperate for that now. He reaches between his legs and just lets the finger into himself and it goes in easy, wet. 

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Jon says, watching with crossed arms from the desk. “I take it, this is a common pleasure. Do you do it a lot? Every day?” 

Some of the haze is gone from Martin’s eyes now, a place to catch his breath, but his voice is still heavy with need as he replies. “Not any more. Did when I was first working here, when you scolded me constantly. Had to stop myself from wandering off to the bathrooms, jerking off to the memory then and there,” he says. 

“Another finger,” Jon replies. “If you’re so used to it.” 

This time it takes a little more maneuvering, but Martin manages. He pants on this one, shivers at the stretch. 

“I bet it kept you nice and loose, doing it every day-- and I bet for a while at a time. Minutes turning into hours, this nice young man turning into something _far_ less respectable, mewling and gasping on his own fingers for the man he could not have.” 

“ _God_ ,” Martin groans. “Jon, I--” 

“Are you going to take three for me?” 

“ _Ah,_ yes, yes, fuck--” Martin’s losing his rhythm, grinding down while trying to pump his fingers in and out. 

“Fingers are so inconstant,” Jon says. “Maybe I ought to get you a toy. It would be easier to bounce yourself on that, wouldn’t it? Make the whole experience easier for the two of us.” 

Martin lets out a high whine and Jon gives a grin, full and more wolfish than he thought he was capable of. 

“I think you’ve earned the right to your cock again, if you want it.” 

“I need…” Martin trails off, but he repeats the words again. “I need--” 

Jon nods, goes to stand behind him. Buries a hand in his hair and tugs his head back. It’s the perfect angle to croon in his ear. 

“Look at you, Martin,” Jon murmurs. “I can’t decide if you’re filthy or beautiful, maybe both. Fucking yourself for me, being so _good_ for me-- this is what you’re for, you know. This is what you’re best at. Let me see what you can do.” 

Keening, Martin redoubles his efforts, his legs shaking with need but his hands moving faster. 

“That’s wonderful, my dear. Keep it up, yes,” Jon says. “That’s right. So good, so obedient, so perfect for me-- my gorgeous Martin, you’re doing so well.” 

“Please, Jon, _please,_ ” Jon doesn’t know what Martin’s asking for-- anything and everything, probably-- so Jon just keeps going, murmuring into his ear and stroking his hair, pausing sometimes to mouth kisses down his neck. 

“I need, Jon, I need, please-- tell me,” Martin pants, trembling under Jon’s gentlest touches. “Can I, may I, _Jon, Jon, please--”_

All at once Jon realizes what he’s asking for. With a wicked grin, Jon gives a harsh tug to his hair and whispers, close and sinuous, “Come for me, Martin. _Let me see._ ” 

And that’s it. With a shudder that goes on for longer than Jon had imagined possible, it’s over. 

Martin’s chest lays streaked with white as his breathing starts to return to normal. Jon offers a spare shirt he keeps in his desk. When he realizes Martin isn’t in any place to clean himself up, Jon kneels at the same level as Martin and starts to do it himself, gently swiping and dabbing until Martin looks half a person again. 

For lack of a better word, Jon’s boyfriend seems to have turned into a puddle. 

“Let’s get you up,” Jon says, offering his hand. Martin takes it and manages to get, somewhat unsteady, to his feet.

There’s a dazed look to him, like he’s still not fully in himself. Martin had warned him that this might happen for a particularly intense scene, and Jon had come across in his research himself. “Come on.” 

Jon herds the two of them to the armchair, helping Martin step out of his trousers as he does. He’s hidden a blanket just behind it for late nights and he gets it out, wraps it around Martin’s shoulders. 

He wouldn’t be able to say how long they spend cuddled together on that suddenly-too-small armchair, Jon stroking Martin’s hair, murmuring gentle praise into his ear and laying only the softest kisses on his cheek. Eventually Martin seems to return to himself, if a wildly more languorous version. 

“That was...good,” Martin finally says. “Really good. Thank you.” 

“I wasn’t too harsh?” Jon asks. 

“You were perfect.” 

Jon presses their foreheads together and they share the same space, the same heartbeat, the same breath. “So were you. You were-- more beautiful than I could have imagined.” He pauses, and some of his normal awkwardness comes welling into the bit of his heart that he’s taken those words out of. “I mean, you’re always--” 

Martin lets out a quiet laugh. “Let’s get some food.” 

“Food-- food would be good.” Jon is returning to himself as well, he realizes. The persona is falling away. He feels suddenly exhausted. And hungry. “Yes, let’s do that. Pizza?” 

“Always.” 

If that wasn’t the exact moment Jon noticed the streak of come on one of his folders, the kiss would have been the sweetest one they had shared yet. 

“ _Martin!”_

And Martin kisses him again, and this one is.

**Author's Note:**

> This is,,, easily the filthiest thing I have ever written, but I couldn't get it out of my head. Now y'all get to enjoy it. I think I'm using the Do Not Archive tag right-- stuff you would Rather Die than have the creators of the show see, I think? If it means something else, please do let me know! 
> 
> This was titled 'I'm Really Writing This, huh?" in my google docs. That's how I feel about this piece. I still love it, though. All the stuff about Jon being ace is what I've picked up from my very brief experience thus far in this fandom-- I'm not sure where he actually canonically stands on things, because I'm still on ep 125 of the actual thing. If there's anything here that explicitly contradicts canon I cannot help this. 
> 
> anyway, lmk what y'all think...leave a comment...send me a pigeon. I'm going to immediately anon this because my main account is connected with too many people that I know but I /will/ be keeping an eye on it! :D (Edit: I've decided to fear no god or man and am just gonna de-anon this bc I think this is all a good deal of silliness.)


End file.
